RedHanded
by Girl in Midair
Summary: He is ashamed to see her eyes, dim with tears; when she cries, it brings the world to its knees inside this wreck of iron and rust. It would bring Simon to his knees, when he must stand.


_Written in response to drama-princess's fic challenge-- one line from a song listed on her journal. The line is from "Come On" by Tegan and Sara, which I had never heard, so the line is a bit out of context... but it seemed to fit. (The fic is angsty-- why does all my fanfic decide to be angsty??-- while the song is amazingly hot.) As usual, the characters don't even begin to belong to me, but are the property of Joss Whedon._

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**Red-Handed**

_Tell me what my hands were made for._

Simon stands in the infirmary. The water is running, but he has drawn his hands out from beneath it. Palms up, pools of water sitting still in the hollow of his hand, filling the creases and making them gleam. The water is stained pink. He didn't have time for gloves.

_"Let me read your palm," says Kaylee, bouncing up from her reclining position on the sofa and sitting with her legs crossed. Simon stares at her, baffled. It's out of the blue—just moments ago they had been talking cozily, Kaylee's feet in his lap, his arms resting idly on her shins. _

_"Gimme your hand," Kaylee insists, stretching out her own. Her fingers curl slightly, her hand scrubbed clean from its daily forays into the depths of Serenity's engine. Her fingers are rough as Simon takes them in his grip; but they are strong and sure, with chips of pink paint still clinging to her nails. She smiles, and it's like a promise._

_"You know how to read palms?" Simon asks in some confusion, raising an eyebrow. _

_"Nope," Kaylee replies, the darkness of her eyes shining brightly. "I just wanted you to hold my hand."_

Simon lets the water go, bracing his hands on either side of the sink. His hair is out of place, falling onto his forehead; everything is out of place.

His hands. His idle, useless hands. They look strong; they are smooth and clean, well-shaped, hands that know how to do the work they were made for. Hands that repaired wounds, injected medicines, turned dials, kept moving, kept things working, kept things right and proper.

He feels the muscles in his legs tighten in the impulse to flee, his arms involuntarily clutching up, his breathing quicken, his stomach turn. A rush of heat clambers up his spine, spangling across his scalp.

Run, Simon. Run.

But if he turns around, if he runs, it will be true.

Such idle, useless things, his hands. They could have been everything to him, but now… now they were nothing.

He hears her in the doorway before he sees her. He can't turn to her. He is ashamed to see her eyes, dim with tears; when she cries, it brings the world to its knees inside this wreck of iron and rust. It would bring Simon to his knees, when he must stand.

"It ain't your fault," Kaylee says faintly, and he can hear her step through the doorway. He knows where she is not looking, at the vague shape beneath the sheet, mountains and hills beneath stark white cotton.

"Kaylee, get out of here," he says, harsh and bitter. "This is no place for you."

Don't leave. God, he wants her to stay. He's never needed her this way before, never thought he would. He wants her kindness and her earthy ways, her unaffected smile, her promise of always.

"I ain't leavin'," Kaylee says, and he feels her hand, small and sure, on his back, resting between his broad shoulders. Then her cheek, warm and familiar, heat radiating through the thin cotton of his shirt.

"Simon, don't do this," she pleads. "Don't go cold this way. You can't."

"Kaylee, stop," he pleads, feeling the stinging pain of tears. He closes his eyes. If the tears come, it will be true.

"No." Kaylee comes around, turns off the water. Red rivulets are running down the sink, turning pink, fading away. All that's left, down the drain. All he had tried to save, emptying through the deeps of the ship and out into space.

"I ain't leavin'," Kaylee says again, so softly this time that it's like a blow to Simon's knees. He reaches for her, grappling for a hold. He takes her down with him, and they fall to the floor together, clumsy and stumbling, Kaylee baffled at his sudden exhaustion. She clutches at him, brings him to her, sitting with legs akimbo, drawing him close into the warmth of her body. Simon still feels cold.

"I tried everything," Simon says, so painfully aware of Kaylee's hands on him, holding tight, that he has never been so fully close to her, wrapped in her limbs this way. Kaylee's hands are strong, acting in keeping with what she wants and what she thinks. Simon's hands have failed him.

"I got there, and she was just… there was so much blood... and the captain helped me lift her, helped me run." Simon shuddered, and he felt Kaylee's tears dripping into his hair. "They just gunned her down, they weren't supposed to do that, they wanted her alive, they can't do it. They can't."

Kaylee says nothing. It's almost as if the sunshine has fled every corner of the ship, leaving it dank and dark without Kaylee's smile, her rainbow. His hands could have saved everything, but instead they reached out and bloodied it all, bloodied Kaylee's smile, crushed it into dust.

He weeps, and Kaylee holds him, tight-tight-tight in the safe space her arms make, and he knows she will never let go. His hands, still wet, make dark prints on her sleeve, blood and water, stains of bad timing and regret, horror and shock. Remnants of his sister imbedded in Kaylee, reminders that when it came down to the wire, his powerful hands meant nothing.

And under the sheet, River slept on.


End file.
